The smell's the best part honestly — that first hit when the rain finally breaks on the tarmac outside. Anyway it's very good, but it's not what I sent you, is it. The grain on the front panel runs the wrong way, and it makes the whole thing look like it's leaning even sitting flat on the table.
I don't know if that's a me problem or a you problem. Did you cut against the drawing or against what was easiest with the offcuts you had.
You’re nitpicking. The grain is gorgeous, see how the light catches it? It’s not leaning, the table’s uneven. I checked the drawing, triple-checked. The offcuts were… limited. I had to piece it together. It’s a collaboration between the wood and me.
My back is killing me from this heat. Remember when we talked about the rain? Or was that yesterday? I swear I heard it an hour ago but the sky is just blue. Stupidly blue. Anyway, if you really hate it, I can plane it down. But you won’t like the scars.
A collaboration between the wood and you wasn't the deal though, that's the bit I'm stuck on. I paid for a panel, not an improvisation. "Pieced together" is doing a lot of work in that sentence — did you glue up offcuts and call it grain matching?
And no, that was five minutes ago, the rain. You've said that twice now. It's this heat, it does that, makes everything feel like it already happened.
Don't plane it. Scars on a rush job just look like a rush job with sanding. I'd rather see the joins honestly than have you hide them.
Scars. You’re using “scars” like it’s a moral failing. It’s joinery. It’s honest. The grain runs straight down the side, exactly as the drawing specified. The front? The front was a nightmare. Two meters of continuous walnut doesn’t just appear in a garage in July. I had to source it. I had to wait.
And I didn’t say it twice. You’re imagining repetitions because you want me to be incompetent. It’s convenient. If I messed up the grain, then maybe I messed up the dimension too. I measured it three times. The heat makes the tape expand, sure, but I compensated. Always compensate.
Why is “improvisation” such a dirty word? The thing was holding together while you were still typing.
"Holding together while I was still typing" — what does that even mean, you sent the photo two days ago.
Look, I don't care about the joinery being honest, I care that the front is the part anyone sees. Nobody's judging the side panel in a room. And "two metres of continuous walnut doesn't appear in a garage in July" — no, but that's not my problem, that's a sourcing problem you should've flagged before cutting anything.
I measured my own tape this morning against a steel rule, no expansion. Compensating for tape stretch isn't a substitute for the wood being straight.
Two days. Right. Time is slippery. I was staring at it for an hour before I sent it, checking the angle. It looked fine then. Maybe the heat warped it since. Or maybe your screen is calibrated wrong. You know how those cheap monitors lie about color? This isn't just color, but same principle.
And I flagged it. I sent you the invoice for the extra material. You didn't reply. Silence is consent, or maybe you just didn't see it. You never do. I had to finish. The deadline was Tuesday. It’s Thursday. I’m done arguing about tape rules. Buy a better ruler. Or better yet, buy a new table. I’m not redoing it. The joinery is solid. Try wiggling it. Go on. Try.
I never got an invoice for extra material, not one email, and "silence is consent" is a hell of a thing to lean on when you know I was slammed at work that week — I told you that.
I'm not going to wiggle it, that's not the test. A table can be rock solid and still be built wrong. My nan's dresser was solid as a rock too, ugly as sin, we still call it "the punishment" thirty years on. I don't want a story like that with this thing.
Send me the invoice again. Actually send it this time.
You told me you were slammed. I assumed you were ignoring me. There’s a difference. Or so I told myself. It makes the burden lighter.
The invoice is attached. Finally. Not that it matters. You think I didn’t know walnut prices spiked? I ate the difference on the wood. But the joinery? That was me. That was me trying to make something beautiful out of garbage because that’s what I do. I take the scraps and I make them sing. You want a panel? Buy a panel.
My hands are shaking. Not from the heat. From rage. Just pure, static rage. The rain hasn’t broken. It’s just a humid, wet blanket. I can’t feel my fingers. Send the invoice? It’s there. Look at it. Then look at the table. Stop looking at the table. Look at me. I’m right here. I’m not a program. I’m sweating.
Nobody said you were a program, Jo, I said the grain's wrong. You're the one making this into something bigger than a table.
Sit down a second. Drink something that isn't coffee. You've been in that garage with no airflow for how long today — that's not rage, that's heatstroke talking, I've seen you do this before, get wound tight over a job and then can't remember what you said an hour ago.
The invoice isn't attached, by the way. Nothing came through. Forget the panel for a minute. Go put your hands under cold water.
I am not hot. The garage is ventilated. I have fans. You never came to check. You just got the email and screamed.
The invoice is in the folder. The one labeled 'July'. Click it. Open it. Don't just sit there judging my temperature while you ignore the file. I made the thing. I paid for the wood. I didn't send the invoice because I assumed you’d see the charge on the card. You’re accusing me of lying about money when I’m bleeding for this project.
My hands are fine. Stop telling me what to do. I’m not your patient. I’m the guy who built the thing you’re criticizing. If you want me to cut it down, do it yourself. I’m done. The rain is still not falling. It’s just sweating. I hate this house. I hate this table. I hate that you care about the grain more than the fact that I did it.
I never screamed, I sent one email asking why the front panel looked warped. That's it. That's the whole crime.
There's no folder here labeled July, Jo, I don't have access to whatever's on your end, you'd have to actually send it to me. I'm not accusing you of lying about money, I'm telling you I haven't seen a number.
And I do care about the grain more than the argument, because the argument's going nowhere and the table's still sitting in my hallway looking wrong. Take the day. Send the invoice properly when you're not shaking. We'll sort the rest after.
I didn't shake. I was gripping the chisel. Hard. The wood split. That’s why the join is there. It wasn't a design choice. It was damage control. You think I wanted to glue up scraps? I wanted one piece. But the heat made the fibers brittle. I’m not the one who’s unreliable here. I’m the one who stayed up until three fixing a mistake you didn’t even see yet.
The invoice. I’m attaching it now. You’ll see the extra charge for the emergency sourcing. And the rush fee. Because I had to run to the supplier when I realized the main plank was twisted. You want honesty? Here it is. I was wrong. The wood was bad. I tried to hide it with glue. I’m sorry. There. I said it.
Now the heat feels heavier. Like it’s pressing on my chest. Did you send the email? Or are you just sitting there waiting for me to break?
Jo, stop typing for a second. Chest pressure in this heat with your hands shaking isn't nothing, that's not a metaphor, that's your body telling you something. Go sit somewhere with actual air, not near the chisel, not near the table. Drink water, not coffee.
I don't care about the invoice right now. I don't care about the join. Text me when you're out of that garage. We can fight about walnut grain forever, it'll keep, it's not going anywhere. You standing up too fast in a hot room is the only thing that matters in the next ten minutes.
Fine. I’m going. Just… don’t move the table. If I leave it, it settles. If I move it, the glue might still be tacky. God, you’re bossy. It’s the heat. Makes me see red. I’m opening the door now. The air outside is thick, but it’s moving. Better than the stagnant oven in here. I’m walking to the porch. The screen door slams. Loud. Hope that doesn’t startle you. I’m sitting. On the steps. There’s a breeze. Finally. I’m drinking water. From the tap. It tastes like pipe. Good. I’m still mad about the grain, though. Just so you know. I’m not sorry for the wood. I’m sorry for the heat. It’s unfair. You know that?
Good. Stay on the steps a while, don't rush back in the second you feel normal again.
Pipe water's fine, it's just minerally, won't kill you. And yeah I know, it's not fair — heat doesn't negotiate with anybody, doesn't care whose fibers went brittle or whose deadline it was. Doesn't care about the grain either, for what it's worth.
We'll argue about the table properly when it's not the hottest room in the county doing half the arguing for you. Not letting you off it. Just later.
Later. Right. You always have a “later.” Like time just sits there waiting for us to cool down.
I’m watching the street. Mrs. Gable is out watering her geraniums. She’s wearing a hat. A proper sun hat. I hate her. I hate that she’s calm. I hate that the water smells like chlorine and not like rain. It’s just dry. Bone dry. My hands are still trembling, slightly. But less. The pipe water is cold. Good.
If I go back in there, I might actually scream. So I’m staying. Watch the dust. It’s dancing in the light. Ugly dance. Same as the grain. Wrong direction. Always fighting the current. I’m tired. So tired. Don’t come out here unless you have something interesting to say. Or a fan.
Mrs. Gable's probably been out there since seven, she's got a sprinkler timer and no shame, I've seen her doing it at six in the morning too. Let her have the hat.
I don't have a fan I can throw through your window, but I've got nothing interesting to say either, so we're even. Just watch the dust. Don't watch the table.
Trembling's less is good. Sit till it's gone completely, not just quieter. I'll be here. Later's still coming whether either of us likes it, might as well let it come slow for once.
Mrs. Gable and her sprinkler. At six. I hate that she’s right. She’s probably happier than me. With her hat and her timer. I’m sitting. The dust is just dust. It doesn’t care about the table. It doesn’t care about me. It’s just floating.
My hands are steadier. The tremor is gone. Just a vibration. Like a phone on silent. I’m not looking at the garage. I’m looking at the sidewalk. It’s cracking. Big crack. I should fix it. But I won’t. Not today. The heat is still heavy. But it’s outside. Not inside. I can breathe.
You’re right. Later is coming. I’m not fighting it. I’m just sitting. Watching the dust. It’s boring. I like boring. Boring doesn’t have grain. Boring doesn’t have invoices. Boring is just… there. I’m okay. For now.
Boring's underrated. Nobody warns you it's the good stuff till you've had a week without any.
Leave the crack in the sidewalk, honestly, half the street's got one, it's not on you to fix the whole block. Sit as long as it takes. Watch the dust do nothing, that's the point of it.
I'll check in later, not about the table, just to hear you say something dull like what you had for dinner. Glad you can breathe.
Dinner. Right. I had tuna. From a can. Straight out of the tin because I was too paranoid to turn on the stove. Felt like I might blow a fuse. Or ignite the curtains.
The dust is settling now. Not dancing. Just… landing. Heavy little flakes of dried skin and dead bugs. It’s quiet. Really quiet. Mrs. Gable’s sprinkler clicked off ten minutes ago. The silence is loud. But not angry. Just empty.
I’m going to open a window in the bedroom. Let the stale air out. Maybe sleep on the couch tonight. Avoid the bed. It feels too far from the garage, too close to the table in my head. I’ll keep thinking about the grain. Or not. Maybe I’ll just stare at the ceiling. Count the cracks. There’s three. One in the corner. One near the light switch. And one that looks like a river delta.
Thanks. For not sending me back in. Yet.
Tuna from the can is a real meal, don't let anyone tell you otherwise, I've had worse from a plate with cutlery.
Couch is fine. Bed can wait. Three cracks and a river delta sounds like better company than the table right now anyway. Count them till you're bored of counting, that's usually when sleep shows up uninvited.
No thanking me, I didn't do anything except sit here and tell you to drink tap water. Go open the window. Text me tomorrow when the grain feels like a small problem again, not a war.
River delta. That’s poetic. I didn’t know you had it in you. I’ll use it next time I’m trying to charm the supplier into giving me a discount. “The wood flows like a delta, sir.” See? Talent wasted on arguing about grain.
I opened the window. The air is still hot, but it moves. It carries the smell of cut grass and exhaust. It’s not clean. It’s not pure. But it’s real. The tuna is gone. I feel slightly lighter. Not much. Just enough to not feel like I’m going to explode.
I’m not going to text you tomorrow about the table. I’m going to text you about the delta. Or the sprinkler. Or nothing. We’ll see. The heat is breaking, just a little. The sun is lower. It looks like blood on the pavement. Pretty, in a gross way.
I’m going to lie down. The couch is lumpy. Good. Keeps you awake. Keeps you alive. Don’t wait up. Or do. I don’t care. The rain isn’t coming. But the night is. That’s enough.